Pyrius
by Jo2
Summary: Horseman fic. The horsemen didn't know they left a witness behind after a raid. They should have been more careful.


PYRIUS  
By JoLayne  
  
EMAIL: EnyaJo@aol.com  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
CHARACTERS: Horsemen, OCs: Pyrius, Prima, Naomi  
  
SUMMARY: The Horsemen didn't see a little boy hiding under a blanket  
during one of their raids. They should have been more careful.  
  
THANKS to the wonderful beta, Cherna!  
  
DISCLAIMER: All characters you recognize belong to Panzer/Davis.  
  
============  
BRONZE AGE  
============  
  
The sole problem in Pyrius' eight year old world that bright morning was  
the fact that his playmates made sure he couldn't get the pebble. Five of  
them ducked and rolled out of his way as he tried to push and pry at  
them to get the present owner to drop it. He was It and was determined  
not to lose, he never had. He was the best athlete of his clan of friends  
and they all knew it. Pyrius he was faster, stronger, smarter than the rest  
of them. The pebble was tossed into the hands of Jasep. Pyrius  
whooped! He knew he could get it from him, his best friend, the densest  
kid in the village.  
  
He hovered over Jasep, who made a show of actually being able to keep  
the pebble. Pyrius tickled Jasep and they fell to the ground, laughing  
and scrambling for it. Jasep kept a tight grip on it. Pyrius tickled him  
again but his grip wouldn't loosen. They rolled on the ground laughing  
and pulling at the rock, tickling each other, until the ground started to  
vibrate underneath him. The people of the village came out of their  
tents, stopped their discussions, dropped their bundles as all eyes went  
to the horizon.  
  
Four men on horseback, riding knee to knee thundered over the plain,  
directly to the village. They wore masks, stark, black and silver masks that  
made them look like other worldly machines. Even the horses wore  
metal face plates as they made their way closer to the village.  
  
Men hollered for the women to get inside, children screamed and were  
grabbed by their parents, and few ran out of the village, away from the  
coming doom. Pyrius and Jasep stood and stared at them, in awe of the  
sight.  
  
Pyrius was grabbed from behind and carried into his family hovel. His  
father tossed him inside and ordered him to stay quiet and never move  
from that spot! He selected an ax from the corner and returned outside.  
His mother ran into the house and pulled her son into a terrified hug. He  
could hardly breathe as her grip was tight with terror of the unknown  
events that would soon pervade their village. Her long blond hair  
covered his head like a safety net as she clung to him, her head over his.  
  
Outside, they heard people scream, dogs bark and howl, horses neigh  
and livestock whine. His mother pushed Pyrius' face into the dirt of the  
floor without knowing. When she realized she may be crushing her  
foundling son, she lifted herself, but was still terrified of the nightmare  
that was right outside their door. The expression on his mother's face  
was etched into his brain. It was of dread, fear, hopelessness, emotions  
that would soon be the major part of the young boy's life. His long life.  
When his mother threw a blanket over him, Pyrius lifted it with his finger  
and was able to see through a slit between the blanket and ground. The  
thundering horses stopped right outside their door. There were shouts  
and screams. He heard great weights thud to the ground.  
  
Pyrius' mother, Prima, moved to the other side of their home, as far as  
she could be from the one thing she wanted to stay safe, him. If she  
could have crawled into the wall, she would have. She told him in a very  
frightened voice, "Do not move, child."  
  
His father's boot appeared in his line of vision under the blanket and  
relief washed over his mother's face. She moved toward his father, but  
stopped. A great weight fell on top of Pyrius, his father's lifeless eye  
filled the slit's view. Pyrius let out a fearful whimper, but couldn't move  
under the weight of his father. Prima's pleas disrupted the silence.  
Pyrius moved his hand lengthened the view of the slit. A dusty dark  
brown boot walk past.  
  
Pyrius tried to move the load on top of him but his father too heavy to  
move without giving away the fact that he was there. He lifted the  
blanket up more and saw a man wearing metal on the upper part of his  
body with dirty white sleeves and legs walk determinedly toward his  
mother. She was cowering, shaking her head no. She was crying. She  
pleaded with the man, who put his hand over her face and pushed her  
down on his parents' bed.  
  
The long haired man drew a dagger out of his belt loop and flopped on  
top of his mother before she could get away. Her skirt was hiked up over  
her head. The man pulled his breeches down. His mother screamed in  
high pitched alarm and pain. Pyrius got a look at the man, the left side of  
his face.  
  
The little boy didn't understand what was happening, but couldn't  
stand the sight and the sounds. He covered his ears, slammed his eyes  
shut, trying to block out the world. The screaming and pleading of his  
mother was drowned out by the grunting and howling of the intruder.  
  
Men and animals and their attackers outside valiantly fought and the  
wails of the losers blasted into Pyrius' brain. Then, all was silent in his  
house. He was scared to move. He heard a terrible gasping and the  
shuffle of dirt across the floor, near him and out the door.  
  
Pyrius waited what seemed an eternity before he even breathed. He  
heard the horses and men who rode them outside, taking stock of what  
they'd accomplished. Pleased with themselves. Pyrius lifted the blanket  
and got a flash of his mother's leg hanging off the bed, then slowly lift  
onto the bed.  
  
He got out from under his father and pushed him and the blanket aside.  
Pyrius stood and saw his mother. Prima was rolling back and forth on  
the bed, exposed, naked from the waist down, bleeding from her legs,  
crotch, stomach and neck.  
  
Pyrius' father had rolled into the doorway. He waited to see if the  
invaders would notice and come back for him. Pyrius was scared, but his  
mother's grunts made him rush to her. He lowered her skirt and laid  
beside her. Prima lifted a bloody hand from her neck wound to his face.  
She gasped and stared at her beautiful son she and her husband found,  
like a gift to them, and had filled them with such joy for eight years.  
  
Movement at the door drew Pyrius' attention. He looked out to the  
bright, sunny day to a man standing just steps from their doorway,  
talking to someone who Pyrius couldn't see. The man either didn't see  
his father's body or hear his mother's moans... or didn't care. Pyrius  
looked at him and memorized the black barbed wire effect with a swirl  
under his eye painted on his face. He had the same long hair as the  
other intruder, but it was pitch black, not brown, as the demon that  
killed his father and attacked his mother had. Pyrius memorized the  
sword he held in his hand. It had claws at the hilt.  
  
The Swirled Man got on his horse and shouted, "Brothers, good raid!  
Silas, don't drop the stash this time!!" The others laughed as they rode  
off with cattle and horses that belonged to his village. When the demon  
that ravaged his mother rode past revealing the right side of his face, it  
was an unearthly blue.  
  
Pyrius looked at his mother, who still hung on. Strained muscles, that he  
didn't even know a face contained, rippled as she gasped, silently  
pleaded for her little boy to help her. She could no longer make a sound,  
Pyrius realized, because of the long slash across her neck. Her hair she  
was so proud of and brushed every day was matted with thick blood. He  
held her hand and watched her take her final breath in this world. Prima  
died with her bulging eyes concentrated on him.  
  
Pyrius cried and laid his head on his mother's chest. She was gone. His  
father was gone. He smelled wood burning and cooked meat. He  
stumbled out of his hovel and looked at the remains of his village. The  
ground was covered with bodies. Men, women, children, babies,  
animals. He walked over and around the bodies looking for others that  
might have survived the attack. Someone to have to go on living with  
the carnage in their brain like he would have to.  
  
Huts were on fire. Bodies were on fire. The smell was sickening. Pyrius  
arrived at the place where he not so long ago played with his friends,  
had not a care or trouble in the world. The almighty pebble that was so  
important before the attack was lying on the ground, inches from the  
hand of Jasep, who laid with his eyes staring lifeless up at the sky. A  
small cut was on his clothes. Pyrius fell to his knees by his friend, opened  
Jasep's shirt. There was a deep stab wound that had snuffed out his  
young life.  
  
Pyrius whimpered when he realized he was alone in the world. He didn't  
find it lucky that he was alive. Just sorry he wasn't taken along with the  
rest of his people. He prayed to the Gods for an answer. Why did he  
survive? Why didn't anyone else live who was more deserving of life?  
What was he supposed to do? Where was he supposed to go?  
  
======================  
FOURTEEN YEARS LATER  
======================  
  
Pyrius dismounted his horse to let him drink from the creek. He  
stretched as it had been a long, meandering journey he was on, trying to  
find his place in the world, in his skin. For the fourteen years since his  
parents' deaths, he spent his time traveling from village to village, never  
connecting with anyone. His only mate in the world was his black horse.  
  
He saw a village in the distance, but it didn't give him joy. He was more  
at home with himself, not people. He didn't even remember the last  
time he spoke. He smelled cooked meat, heard the sounds of laughter  
that he knew he wouldn't be welcomed to join in on if he was willing to  
attempt it. Pyrius had decided to shun people before they got the  
chance to reject him.  
  
When Pyrius bent down to the creek and took a handful of water to his  
mouth, he felt the ground rumble. The water shook from his hand and  
down the front of his clothing. He heard whoops and hollers. Four  
masked man rode their horses toward the village, almost knee to knee.  
As they rode past, not seeing him or not caring, he ran after them on  
foot.  
  
"No.... no..." Pyrius cried out. He didn't want to see it all again. He didn't  
want the monsters to kill more in front of him. As much as he wanted to  
run as far away from the forthcoming disaster as he could, he couldn't  
stop following the four men into the unsuspecting village. He heard the  
familiar screams that he had tried to erase from his memory. He fell to  
the ground, terror and dread filled his soul, knowing what was to come  
to the village's population.  
  
He made it back on his feet and trotted into the killing wake of the  
masked men on horses. He stood at the edge of the village and watched  
the four men slash at anyone in their path, gaping people who stood  
terrified in their way or still sat by the fire. The remnants of the party  
embers were extinguished by a horseman with a mohawk and black  
covering half his face.  
  
Mohawk Man grabbed a woman and threw her to the ground in front of  
the smoking fire. She fruitlessly screamed as he tore her dress off and  
grunted like a pig as he slammed his member into her. He sneered at  
the woman like she was dirt as he held his upper body off her to lock her  
arms to the ground.  
  
The bastard was smiling, had the time of his life. Until... the man with the  
swirl kicked the rapist in the butt. Mohawk Man got up and off the  
woman. Swirled Man grabbed the woman as she tried to crawl away and  
plunged himself into her. After he was satisfied, he plunged a dagger  
into her chest. When Swirled Man walked away from the poor woman's  
corpse, pulling up his breeches, the Mohawk Man returned to her,  
slashed her arm, hacked off fingers so he could have her ring.  
  
Pyrius was sickened, couldn't move and didn't care if he was seen. He  
wanted to take the dagger that was still in his belt loop and attack them  
all. That's what a courageous man would do. But he just stood and  
stared. He didn't know what harm he could inflict with the implement  
anyway.  
  
The Man With Dirty White Sleeves walked out of a tent with a pouch in  
his hand. That was the man! Pyrius stared at him, unable to move. He  
saw his face. Blue paint covered half of it. Why did he have blue on his  
face while the others had black?  
  
Pyrius was trying to make sense of it when he realized Mohawk Man had  
noticed him, was pointing at him. Now frightened, along with being  
sickened, Pyrius couldn't move, even as the Blue Man and the Fat Man of  
the group strode toward him. Pyrius prayed that he could move, but his  
feet didn't budge. His breathing increased and his body shook, but his  
feet wouldn't move.  
  
The Blue Man with dirty white sleeves said something to the other one  
as they approached Pyrius. The Fat Man grabbed Pyrius' hands and held  
them behind his back. The Blue Man slipped the dagger out of Pyrius'  
belt loop and glared at him. Pyrius stuttered, "Who are you? Why do you  
do this?" The Blue Man's only reaction was to smile. He sniffed at him like  
a dog deciding whether to eat him or leave him.  
  
Methos sensed his pre-immortal hum. Pyrius memorized the face  
behind the blue paint, inches from his own as he sniffed and glared at  
him. The laughing eyes that stared was etched in his memory. They  
gleamed as he smiled and boasted, "I am Methos. You are dead."  
  
He stuck the dagger into Pyrius' gut and pulled it up to his neck, ripping  
him open. Methos stepped back before the blood rushed down Pyrius'  
body to the ground and spread. The Fat Man let him fall, but Pyrius  
made sure he turned onto his back. His eyes never left the Blue Man.  
  
Methos said, "Thanks, Silas. You know how I hate to fuss with them  
alone. And the blood... they're all so full of blood..." He laughed as he  
walked past.  
  
Silas mentioned, "The lad's one of us."  
  
"That's not my problem," Methos said. Pyrius' eyes followed him until he  
was above his line of vision. His eyes were stuck staring straight back as  
far as they could reach when Blue Man walked out of his line of vision  
and he died.  
  
=======  
240 AD  
=======  
  
Seven hundred years had passed since Pyrius was turned, and strode  
with purpose into a village of huts. He had watched long enough. The  
rage he felt would never leave him as long as Methos lived. Years of  
charity, prayer and self mutilation, even seeing the Christ child himself  
did nothing to ease the call of revenge that cursed through his veins.  
That would be the day Methos would know what he went through all  
those centuries ago. How dare he make a life for himself!  
  
He knew which hut was his and his new wife's. Just who did Methos  
think he was to get married, when his own life was garbage? Pyrius  
marched to it, sword at ready. All who crossed his path were, slashed,  
stabbed, kicked, all the things he had seen the four men do every night  
in his dreams, and learned from. He had done much to increase his  
speed with his sword and dagger over the years since his 'first death',  
but his only teachers were the four horsemen who went through their  
killing motions every night that Pyrius tried to sleep.  
  
On his killing rampage to Methos' abode, Pyrius didn't feel any of the  
sorrow and sadness that usually made him stop and gather his  
thoughts, run for solace in the comfort of a faith that never smiled on  
him. If a man worked up enough courage to try to stop him, they met  
with the sharp end of his blade or dagger. Pyrius was a two fisted killing  
machine. When he saw the flash of an ax, a knife, he'd swing his sword  
first, killing whoever tried to take him out. He was faster and stronger  
than any of them. Not seeing half of his victims, he trudged his way to  
his main goal. Methos' hut. He ripped the door off it's rope hinge and  
threw it to the ground. The rope loop went with the door making grass  
and dirt fall from the hovel's walls into the doorway.  
  
Pyrius charged into their home. A blond woman ran from him, cowered  
near the bed. He dropped the dagger and threw the bed back and away.  
He grabbed her by the neck. The dream of what would happen went like  
clockwork. Methos' wife, who Pyrius had found out was named Naomi,  
was certainly accommodating. She sufficiently begged and pleaded like  
his mother and the other victims of the four monsters. He was happy to  
be on the receiving end of their fear, to wield such power. No wonder  
Methos enjoyed it so much.  
  
He wanted Methos to be there, to be a witness to her sacrifice, but he  
had such rage, Pyrius couldn't control himself. He pushed her to the wall  
by the door and plunged his sword into her stomach as he studied every  
flicker in her terrified eyes. The sword came out the other side of the  
wall. He kept her head up so he could watch her face as she tried to fight  
the inevitable, then die. He left his sword in her and stepped back. Her  
feet were half a foot from the wall and she stayed upright lifelessly  
staring at him.  
  
Pyrius was disappointed that she died in such a short amount of time.  
He wanted her to suffer, like his mother did. Maybe he should have  
slashed her first, had fun with her like his 'teacher' always had. As he  
slowly turned his ear to his shoulder, watched her, he had to release  
himself from his tight breeches. Damn, that's why they killed! It was a  
rush of power that he had never felt. When he touched himself, it  
throbbed. He rubbed, wondered if he should violate Methos' wife. He  
decided against that and tightened the drawstring on his breeches and  
walked back outside.  
  
All who saw him, ran away making Pyrius laugh. He had the power of  
four men. He was a force to be reckoned with. He understood the  
ecstasy the four felt after a job well done. But he hadn't gotten the prize  
yet. He didn't care about coins, goods, animals... he wanted Methos. He  
wondered through the village looking for him. The people who stayed  
out of his way lived, the others, died.  
  
He saw a boy peek out of a doorway then was pulled back into his  
residence. Pyrius opened the door and looked inside, taking a moment  
to adjust to the dark as he heard whimpering. The boy was held by his  
mother, both crying. He said to them, "I am Pyrius. Tell that to Methos."  
  
He shut the door and walked away. He wondered if he would take  
Methos' head. He had always decided not to, not then, not right away.  
He wanted Methos to know the torment of being left behind. To find  
the one you love dead by a madman.  
  
He felt a sickness in his stomach, a dizziness in his head. Disappointed,  
Pyrius didn't want the shame, guilt or regret for his actions to spoil his  
good mood. Then realized that the malady wasn't because of his inner  
self. It seemed to come from Methos, who he finally saw standing at the  
edge of the village. Pyrius stared down the man in peasant clothes, his  
longer hair gathered in a pony tail, with a load of wood in his arms.  
Funny... without his comrades, he didn't look as formidable.  
  
Methos looked in horror at the remnants of his settlement that he  
himself had inflicted on countless villages in his past. Pyrius slowly  
walked to Methos, who dropped the wood. Frightened eyes trained on  
his hut and the bloody tip of a sword peeking out of the home he had  
built with his own hands. Methos forgot about the immortal buzz and  
ran to his wife, knowing what was in store. He walked through the door  
and turned to see Naomi pinned to the wall. When Methos howled in  
grief, it was the sweetest sound Pyrius had ever heard.  
  
Methos pulled the sword out and his wife fell into his arms. He picked  
her up and laid her gently on the bed. He caressed her beautiful face  
and bent over her, wracked with sobs. Pyrius strolled into the hut to see  
up close and personal Methos' reaction to what he did.  
  
Although Methos knew he was there, he never turned his head. Pyrius  
grabbed him and flipped him over, onto his wife. Without a fight from  
Methos, Pyrius hooked his hand around his neck and squeezed. Methos  
didn't recognize the maniac, but there was something familiar.  
Something that made his skin crawl. The way his village had been wiped  
out, he knew that man was either a victim or student of their way of  
killing, and he had mastered it. Even though Methos didn't physically try  
to stop the inevitable, Pyrius quickly stabbed his dagger into Methos'  
chest and pulled it down his body, slitting him open from heart to  
crotch, reenacting just what Methos had done to him.  
  
Pyrius was disappointed that his ultimate victim didn't make a sound,  
just stared up at him with terror, tears, grief. Methos silently laid atop his  
wife, back to her. That was his only regret for the moment. That he  
couldn't see her. He couldn't tell her he was sorry. That he couldn't kiss  
her one last time before the intruder would take his head after he died.  
As his life slowly leaked from his body, Methos wondered if he would  
ever know that man was and just what it was he did to him to make him  
exact revenge.  
  
THE END  



End file.
